Phoenix Song
by AmzyD
Summary: "Harry stared down at the piece of string attached to a safety pin in his hand. It was in that moment that he felt something in him break. He was too young, of course, to realise that it was his heart."


**A/N: This was meant to be written for a challenge with the prompts: Outcast, wooden toys, languidly, phoenix and warm tears. But I didn't get it in on time (oops), but decided to do it anyway:P Enjoy!**

Six year old Harry Potter sat on the cold laminate floor of the Dursley's household. His big, green eyes, full of innocence and curiosity, rested at some point across the wide room, were Dudley's new polished wooden toys lay. He had a train set made of the finest wood tracks and little toy people, their happy faces carved out of wood.

Harry stared down at the piece of string attached to a safety pin in his hand. It was in that moment that he felt something in him break. He was too young, of course, to realise that it was his heart.

xXx

That night as he slept in the dark and dusty cupboard under the stairs, his bones digging into the stone hard floor, Harry dreamt an unusual dream. There was a woman; she had gorgeous red hair and a brilliant smile as she held Harry happily in her arms.

"Harry," she said, smiling happily, "mummy loves you so much." She swooped down to give him a kiss on the cheek. Harry was startled to feel warm tears on his cheeks, thinking that they were his own. But as he looked up to the smiling lady, he realised her eyes, as bright green as his, swam with tears.

He wanted to speak to the kind lady; he yearned to put a stop to her tears. Instead, he nestled further into her and closed his eyes.

He awoke that morning to the shrill knock on his door, Aunt Petunia ordering him up as usual. He woke up with a mingled feeling of loss and dread. He lingered in his cupboard though, forcing his eyes closed, hoping with his little heart that if he closed his eyes the nice lady would come back again.

But alas, it was not to be. The nice lady from his dream was just that – a dream.

xXx

It was late afternoon and Harry was in his cupboard. He watched a spider languidly spin its web as the low rumble of voices crept in the cracks of his cupboard.

"Dudley." It was Uncle Vernon. "You know that Daddy loves you, don't you m'boy?"

"But Daddy," replied a sickeningly false sweet voice, "if you love me why won't you let me watch the telly?" He broke into a choking sob.

"That programme was too violent, Dudders!" came Aunt Petunia's gasping as Harry could only imagine her to be cradling him now.

"Liars!" Dudley shouted in a squeaky voice, "You love Harry more than me!"

"No," Vernon said sharply, letting out a hollow laugh, "_nobody _loves Harry – Petunia – put the telly back on, dear."

In his cupboard, Harry buried his head in his knees. Confused, alone and scared, he clamped his eyes shut and prayed for the kind woman with her red hair and green eyes to swim back into his head.

But she never. So instead, Harry cried. He let the tears roll down his cheeks in abundance as he sniffed quietly and wallowed, an outcast. As he cried, he wished. He wished for a father to play with him as Uncle Vernon did with Dudley, a father to hug him and tell him that he loved him, a father to play with. He wished for a mother to dote on him like Aunt Petunia did with Dudley, a mother to buy him presents, not many, maybe just one or two a year. A mother who would take him shopping and walk him to school and hold him when he got hurt, not throw a bottle of disinfectant at his head like the Dursley's did.

But then, a horrible thought struck him. Maybe he _was _horrible. Maybe he was a bad child. Maybe what the Dursley's said was true. Maybe his own parents had hated him; maybe they were glad to be rid of him, wherever they were. At least, that's what Uncle Vernon said.

Harry fell into an uncomfortable sleep with these thoughts playing in his mind. He dreamt awful dreams, with giant spiders and flying motorbikes and big hairy men. Somewhere between the darkness though, as green lights flashed and people screamed, a beautiful song started to play, its source unknown. His heart rate lowered as his breathing evened and he felt inexplicably calm. He felt his fears evaporate from him and a burst of hope flew into his heart. When Harry woke up that morning, his eyes were dry and he had a smile on his face. It was little reassurance, but he somehow knew that he would be okay.

If Harry had been able to recognise the song, he would know that it was the music of a phoenix. If Harry had been able to see into the future, he would know that he _was _going to be okay. If Harry had known that he were to grow up to be a fearless wizard, with friends loyal and brave, surrounded by people who loved him more than he could ask for, maybe he would feel better.

But Harry knew none of this. So he clambered out of the cupboard and stepped back into his life, nothing to placate him but the calming memory of an unknown song.

Somewhere far, far away, sat and old man with startling blue eyes. He was stroking a bird, a beautiful phoenix, as he sighed heavily, yearning for the moment when he could save Harry Potter as Harry Potter had saved them all.


End file.
